WHEN YOU FALL you have to land, preferably somewhere dimly lit and topless, where funny money is tossed like glitter and there is full contact lap dancing, loose rules and lots of tourism.
I flew to New Orleans with twelve bucks in my pocket. I wasn’t going to get arrested dancing topless on Bourbon Street. “The weather’s ninety degrees with ninety percent humidity,” the stewardess announced on the plane. People moaned but I was ready to be wrapped in southern steam. Out of the airport, I was hit by heat. New Orleans is a sweaty pussy that sticks to your face, soaks into your skin and stays the night.
-The Weeklings
